Where Are You, Jane?
by WeBuiltThePyramids
Summary: <html><head></head>Various times in their dozen year relationship that Lisbon has wondered where Jane is. Starts just after Angela and Charlotte's deaths, ends with Blue Bird.</html>


**I got this idea earlier tonight, and originally it was going to be one segment per season, but then I wanted to change it to different reasons where a person might wonder where another person is. This takes place from a few months before "Red Dawn," (so just over four years before "Pilot") to the second half of "Blue Bird."**

* * *

><p>She moves to the next person on her list. <em>Jane, Angela Ruskin. Jane, Charlotte Ann. May 10<em>_th__, 2001. Suspect known as "Red John." COD: Multiple stab wounds to the chest and stomach, blood loss. Survived by: Jane, Patrick. Husband and father of deceased._

Patrick Jane.

Lisbon moves her finger over the chart, stopping where the 'name' and the 'last known address' row and column intersect. She frowns. His address is listed as the one where his family was murdered, but she knows he isn't there. That house hasn't been lived in since the funeral.

She looks over at the phone number box. _Not available._ Next of kin: _None _

"Cho," she says, and he turns around in his chair. "Yes, boss?"

"You were not able to find any way to contact this Patrick Jane?"

"We tried all usual methods," Cho responds. "Nothing came up. The guy is off the radar."

"Huh." She taps the paper with her pen. "He would be useful."

"I agree," Cho says, "but I even had Rigsby ask some of his friends further up. It's as if he doesn't exist."

Lisbon frowns, nodding, and stares down at the paper, her brow still furrowed. _Where are you, Mr. Jane?_

* * *

><p>She's unbelievably grateful that he's alive, but somehow, he isn't. He doesn't know her, or Cho, or Rigsby, or Van Pelt. Or even Angela and Charlotte. To him, he's a free spirited, womanizing young psychic who has no great tragedy weighing him down. Despite feeling dejected over not having a place in his memory palace, a part of her enjoys seeing him without the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.<p>

But it's not him. It's not him and she hates that. The real Jane – the present day Jane, rather – wasn't like this. And he wouldn't want to be like this. He leaves the signature of his family's killer on the wall and sleeps below it each night he finds his way home because he wants to remember. He would hate knowing that he has forgotten.

He enters her office the next day, smiling, saying that he has had a vision that might help them solve the case, and she looks at him, startled at the look in his eyes. She hasn't gotten a real good look at them, and it's alarming how different they are. They're unfamiliar. She can't tell his mood, she can't even begin to guess if he's lying, and the familiarity in his gaze was gone. She supposed this shouldn't come to a surprise to her, given that he doesn't remember her. But it still startles her.

The Jane she knows has to be in there, somewhere. But it's buried so far that even she – she assumes if anyone can get it out of him, she can – can't see it. She shakes her head slowly as she stares at him.

_Where are you, Jane?_

* * *

><p>Voicemail again.<p>

Lisbon's groan of frustration is audible, but no one is around to hear. The CBI is quiet; she's there late again. She feels more productive here. When she goes home, she thinks too much. Thinking about bad things is a cross she has- to bear every waking moment, but at least when she's at the CBI, she _feels_ like there's something she can do about it.

Although each of her attempts to do something about it always ends the same way.

"_You have reached the voicemail of Patrick Jane. I can't come to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and I will get back to you as soon as I can. If you are calling about my psychic services, know I left that business a long time ago. I am not a real psychic. There is no such thing as a real psychic. And you don't know me so how the hell did you get my cell phone number? Rigsby gave it to you, didn't he?"_

It used to make her roll her eyes. Now it makes her angry – angry that he'd been driven to the breaking point, and sad – sad that she can't help him.

"Jane, it's me again," she says. "If you still have this phone, please answer me. I'm worried about you. We all are. We care about you. We want to help you." She pauses, putting a hand to her mouth as her voice threatens to crack. _Why won't you let me help you, Jane? You know I would._ "Please call me back. Or text me. Whatever. Just let me know you're okay." She lowers the phone, about to end the message, but then returns it to her ear. "I'm always willing to talk. You know where I am."

She sets the phone down on the desk next to her. She's left dozens of similar messages. This one probably won't result in any different outcome. But she knows she'll call him again, later tonight, tomorrow, the next day. And each time she will hope he will finally answer.

_Where are you, Jane?_

* * *

><p>"Jane, can I talk to you for a moment?"<p>

"Hmmm, this book is quite good..." he says, and she knows he's pretending to be conflicted. She kicks his couch, smiling only because she's nervous, and he puts the book down, mumbling something about how the couch never did anything to her, and follows her into one of the interrogation rooms. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know," she blurts out, then frowns. "No," she corrects herself, "no, nothing's wrong, I just..." She looks down, and regrets it immediately, shooting her head back up to look him in the eye. "I told Marcus that I would go with him. To D.C."

Jane's response is a blink. "Huh."

"Is this the right thing to do?" she asks, searching his eyes.

"You're leaving a lot behind," he points out.

"Sometimes a fresh start is a good thing," she says, her voice quieter than she wants it to be.

He nods slowly. "Yes, sometimes." He gives her a smile. "As long as you're happy."

It's another lukewarm response that she's been accustomed to getting whenever she dares ask him his opinion on the matter. She doesn't know why she bothers at this point. She catches him looking at her sometimes, when he thinks she's looking ahead, or at the ground, or at a piece of evidence, and his expression makes her think that maybe he feels the way she does when she catches herself looking at him, when he doesn't know it. She wonders if, when she looks at him like that, he notices sometimes and feels the way she does when she sees him looking at her. After all they've been through together, after all they've shared and all they've conquered, she can't believe that he might actually be okay with her leaving. She can't believe that as she grew to feel like there's a part of her that needs him, the part of him that needs her has gone away. But every time she brings up the topic of her potentially leaving, going someplace that he, tied to Abbott and Texas, can't follow, and with a man who wants to marry her on top of that, he acts as if it doesn't bother him.

She knows where she is. She knows what he is to her. But he has never been this difficult to read. He has never been this closed off.

_Where are you, Jane?_

* * *

><p>The rage wears off when she gets to the airport, and it's not replaced by forgiveness or the feeling that she overreacted, but with overwhelming sorrow. There is nowhere private in an airport, but the first bathroom she comes to is empty and she takes advantage by sliding down against the door, into a sitting position, and bursting into tears.<p>

She's not one to cry, and when she does, it's always like this, somewhere where she is alone. She doesn't like admitting that anything outside of her family can get to her like this, she's been trained to be tough and compassionate, but not emotional. When she's on the job, she can do it. But she's human, she's heartbroken, and she's crying on the bathroom floor of a Florida airport because she finally has her answer and it's not only not the one she wanted, but not one that she ever thought she'd realize.

He doesn't care. He _really _doesn't care.

She thought she'd prepared herself for the realization that he didn't love her, but comprehending that he just thought of her as a convenience, a person he could use to his own advantage, a pawn in his juvenile games, guts her like nothing has in decades. For years – and especially since they were reunited that December afternoon – she's felt something changing. She takes his antics more personally. His once simply irritating traits became hurtful. But his soft moments, when he smiles at her or hugs her or makes casual mention of enjoying being back to work with her, and "why would I want to live in this line of work if you weren't living it with me?" always made her wonder if maybe, just maybe...

But no. She raises her head and rests it against the door. She's been fooling herself as much as he's been fooling her. He's a master manipulator. He's used people to his advantage his entire life. She should never have thought that she'd be the one he'd be sincere toward.

_But he has been. He's told me things that he hasn't told anyone else._

There is a slam against the door and a surprised sound when it didn't open as expected, and Lisbon hurriedly gets to her feet. She has a plane to catch.

_This is me getting stronger,_ she tells herself as she exits the bathroom.

_This is me not being his puppet,_ she tells herself as she goes through security.

_This is me..._she thinks as she walks out to board the plane, surprised at herself when she realizes that she's looking backwards, toward where she'd come, as if expecting him to suddenly appear. _This is me still hoping._

_Where are you, Jane?_

She sets her jaw. This is what holds her back. This is why she's had so few romantic partners over the past decade. This is why she's childless. This is why she's agreed to marry someone that she's never told she loves.

She turns back toward the plane. He isn't coming. He doesn't care. The sooner she accepts it, the better, and D.C. is waiting for her. D.C. is the first step.

She steps on board the plane.

* * *

><p><strong>I hope you all enjoyed this. It's been a long while since I've written anything serious for The Mentalist, and I'm not writing much at all recently due to a number of factors our of my control, so I'm a bit rusty. This fic made me cry when I wrote it because I was re-living all the pain poor Lisbon was in during the latter half of season six, and I so hope season seven has a lot of her being happy.<strong>_  
><em>

**One more thing, in case anyone wonders why I have "he doesn't care," etc in the last segment - remember that the Lisbon we saw in Blue Bird was genuinely heartbroken and felt that Jane really didn't care about her. Her life is about to turn around, but she doesn't know it yet.**


End file.
